French Class
by DesireSpark
Summary: Parlez-vous francais? Cato is hopeless at French, but thankfully Clove is ahead of everyone in the language. He just has to get her to tutor him, in order for him to be able to pass French, or else he won't be allowed to volunteer for the Hunger Games. But there's something else brewing other than learning French. (You might have to use google translate if you don't take French!)
1. Tutor Me

"You have to conjugate être in the conditional."

"What's that?"

"Cato, you're in AP French. You don't know conditional?"

"Come on. Just tell me what to do. You're good at French, not me."

"Take the future root and add the imperfect endings."

Blank stare.

Sigh.

Bell.

"You might consider reviewing your French IV material," I say drily as I make for the door. White numbers circle around the black combination lock on my locker, and kids swarm the hallways, rushing to see their friends. My thoughts are jumbled, the day a complete blur. And it's not even half-over.

"Clove, if I don't pass this class they won't let me volunteer for the Games." Cato's voice is in my ear, and for some reason a strange butterfly sensation resonates in the pit of my stomach. I'm not in Monsieur's classroom anymore in the seat in the exact center of the classroom, sitting next to Cato. And yet, he's here, talking to me. "Help me, please."

I turn to face him, but we're not sitting down anymore. I look up.

"Are you asking for test answers?" Scowl.

"Are you offering test answers?" Playful smirk.

"No. I'm not." Locker slam. Walk away.

"Wait, Clove!"

No waiting.

XXXXXXXXXXX

I'm always the first to French class. It's probably because it's my favorite and best class with my favorite teacher. Just as I sit down and pull a new stick of gum out of my backpack, Cato slides into his seat next to me. Why is he here early? He's never early.

"Hey Clove." Hopeful smile.

"Hi." No eye contact.

"What's wrong?" Confused frown.

Head shake.

"I wasn't asking for test answers yesterday, you know."

Silence.

"I was kidding around. I didn't actually want them."

Nothing.

"Clove."

Nothing.

"Clove!" Shake. Shove.

"What?!" Exasperated stare.

Shocked expression. "Nothing."

« Bonjour, classe! Aujourd'hui nous lirons une petite histoire dans les livres. Ouvrez les textes à la page deux cent quatre vingt dix huit. »

Hard cover textbooks smacking the desks. Pages flipping.

"Clove," he whispers. "What did he say?"

Sly smile. « Comment? Je ne peux pas te comprendre. En français, s'il te plait ? »

Blank stare.

"At least try to speak French. You're never going to get anywhere unless you put in some effort to do the basics."

Pause. Um. Pause. Um. « Qu'est-ce que … Qu'est-ce qu'il a dit ? En anglais ?»

Gentle demeanor. "He said we're reading a story in the book."

"Oh. What page?"

« Comment? Je ne comprends pas. » Smirk.

« Quel page ? »

Encouraging smile. Softened eyes. "298." Flipping pages. Interest.

Long lecture. Easy comprehension. Confusion everywhere else. Boring story. Monotonously thorough repetition.

Bell.

Rush to the door. Rush in the hallway. Clicking combinations. Spinning numbers. Warm hovering presence. Familiar cologne.

"Clove?" Innocence.

Grunt.

"Can you," unsure, "tutor me?"

Mumbled agreement. "Yeah. When."

Shuffling feet. Nervous. "Come over my house later. After dinner? Around 7:30?"

Locker slam. "Okay. Seeya then."

I can feel his eyes on me. Why is he looking at me? I curse myself but look over my shoulder, and see his body positioned leaning sideways against the locker next to mine. His smile grows and he looks over me while I give him a confused look before turning back around and continuing down the hallway towards the stairs on my way to precalculus.

I don't learn a thing about trigonometric functions from the unit circle that class.


	2. Hot Chocolate

"Well what's the difference between passé composé and imparfait?"

"Passé composé is a definite point in time in the past. Imperfect is a span of time in the past that you did something for. Like feelings or the weather."

"That's stupid."

I furrow my eyebrows and scowl at him. "It's a part of the French language."

"Well then French is stupid. Am I fluent yet?" he whines with a playful smirk. With an easy smile, I respond, "You're probably going to need about 20 years of tutoring before that ever happens."

"I'm all in, _Clover,_" he says in a sultry tone with a wink. I clear my throat and look away, but his smile only grows wider.

"Don't call me that," I utter.

"What's that, _Clover_?"

"I said don't call me that!" I snap at him. His eyes grow wide, but I just continue asking him questions and helping him conjugate the verbs. Time passes quickly; this is effortless and even fun. French makes sense, unlike everything else.

"Shit, what time is it?"

"It's 10:00. Why? Do you have a curfew?"

If only he knew. "Do I have a curfew?" I mimic sarcastically. Of course I don't have a curfew. My mom isn't home enough to tell me when I should be. I bite my lip, not wanting to admit this, and manage, "I should get going though. I'm going to be dead tomorrow if I stay up too late."

"Okay," he agrees. Was that regret I saw in his eyes? "Let me walk you out."

I gather up my books and say goodbye to his mother before walking out to my car. She was really sweet, bringing us little macaroons while we were studying. Nothing like my mother. Puddles of water on the driveway reflect the light of the moon and a biting winter chill in the air makes me shiver.

I reach for the door, clicking it open and sliding into the seat. He leans into the open window, and I snap my head over to him, surprised at the closeness. "Thanks for doing this. Can we do it again tomorrow?" I nod at him. "Yeah, sure. My place at 7. Study imparfait again before then."

XXXXXXXXXXX

The doorbell rings at exactly 6:58. I've been cleaning all afternoon and evening – moving empty beer cans from the tables, floors, and everywhere else to the trash, discarding old takeout containers, scrubbing the counters free of wine stains and cigarette ashes, Febreezing all the furniture, vacuuming, dusting, and washing just about everything in this teeny, run-down house. It might even look nice when I'm done, especially compared to the mess it always is. I vaguely wonder where my mother is, but decide she's probably out in a bar or a club or screwing some guy she met on the street. I push away thoughts of her and answer the door.

He's wearing a fitted grey tshirt, black jeans, and a smile. I let him in, and his cologne wafts across my nose, a familiar scent.

"Bonjour, belle fille," he says. I roll my eyes at him.

"Salut, bette vache," I quip, and he narrows his eyes.

"I call you pretty and this is what I get?"

"Maybe you shouldn't be calling me pretty," I respond with a smirk.

"Maybe you are pretty," he chuckles.

I shove him away and smile sideways. "Just open the stupid textbook."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, watch this. I memorized a whole bunch of those weird verbs."

"Irregular?"

"Yeah. Je serais, je ferais, je verrais, je pourrais, j'irais, j'aurais, je viendrais, je voudrais, j'enverrais, je devrais, il faudrait," he lists quickly.

"I'm impressed. You didn't even need me for that. Maybe you should start tutoring me," I joke, and he smiles brightly at me.

"No, you're too smart for me. It's really unfair."

"Stop it," I say, and we continue studying.

It's 9:17 when I hear a crash outside. "Damn raccoons," I curse under my breath. But raccoons don't laugh, and raccoons don't open up doors, and raccoons don't wear sparkly dresses with too-high heels. It's my mother. Shit. I jump up from my chair and race in the next room, to find her stumbling through the door on tipsy feet. She's cackling incessantly, her dyed blonde hair is a mess – sex hair – and the putrid smell of vodka pulses from her body in waves. Cato's up and standing just a few feet behind me, but I just wish he didn't have to see this. I don't want anybody to see this.

"Well, look what we got here; you finally brought a boy home, Clover? Oh, am I crashing your little party?" she asks in a fake whine. "Sorry to ruin the fun for you and your little boyfriend. And you even cleaned the place up for him. So cute."

"You're drunk," I hiss at her. "And he's not my boyfriend. I'm helping him with French."

"You mean with frenching," she guffaws. "You don't even know French. How can you teach him?"

"I've been taking French for seven years."

"You have not! You're a dirty fucking liar," she accuses, her drunken anger flashing across her makeup smeared face, but it quickly vanishes into a feigned expression of innocence. "I'm sorry I had to look like this to meet your friend," she coos in a childish voice. "What's your name?" she asks him in an attempt at being sexy, but it comes out hoarse and cracking. She's advanced to stand inches away from his face, staring at his features with a finger ghosting over his chest. He's uncomfortable, and can definitely smell the liquor on her breath, as he pushes her hand away from him and backs away. She doesn't just take her hand away, though; she slides it down the front of his shirt and lets it rest at her side.

"Hello, Mrs. Fuhrman," he says, clearing his throat. "It's nice to meet you." She smiles at him, taking in his muscle and good looks. I'm disgusted.

"Jeez, would you look at the time. You better get going, Cato," I say in an elevated tone, trying to get him out of this.

"Yes, of course, um, I'll just be … going, then," he says, quickly dashing away from my mother. He grabs his textbook from the table, and I walk behind him, pushing him ahead when I can hear her heels clacking on the ground towards us.

"Don't you walk away from me, young lady," she screeches, and I break into a run, grabbing his hand and pulling him out the door. "Hey, _bitch_!" she screams after me, but she's too drunk to care after that, and instead of chasing me, as usual, she just slams the door.

When we're standing by his car, I don't know what to say, so I just start with the obvious. "Look, I'm really sorry about her. I wasn't expecting her home, I put you in a really awkward situation, I'm sorry –"

"Clove, it's fine, really," he cuts me off. "What she does is out of your control." I sigh and look down at the ground, embarrassed by the awful show my mother was. "Are you okay?" he asks seriously.

"Fine," I answer quickly, trying to hide my shame.

"Clove, I'm sorry you have to deal with that. It sucks," he says plainly, but it sounds like the nicest thing I've ever heard.

"Well, that's life I guess," I answer. "Anyway, see you Monday." He looks longingly and sadly at me, starting up his car. He starts backing down the driveway when I walk to the front door and jiggle the knob before realizing it's locked and dead bolted. I linger at the door a little longer, hoping he leaves before he figures it out too, but when I turn around, he's still at the end of the driveway, watching me. I wave with a half-hearted smile, and he waves back out the window, pulls out into the street, and drives away.

When I go around to the back of the house, I discover that the other door is locked, too.

And all the windows.

She's sober enough to be clever, and drunk enough to be passed out on the couch. I can see her from the window.

A sinking feeling fills my body, remembering that winter night when the same thing happened. Shivering, frozen joints, chilled to the bone, nearly dead the next morning. The weatherman said it's going to get below freezing tonight.

I turn my body toward the house, my forehead pressed up against it. Thank God Cato left already. He can't know about this.

It's dark outside, and there aren't any lights on to help me see. The moon is up, though, so it gives me enough light to make my way around the house to my car. But of course, I locked it and my keys are inside. "Fuck," I whisper to myself.

Change of plans. I go to the woods in the backyard and find some sticks and dried brush for a fire. I dig a lighter out of my pocket, thanking my lucky stars I left it there after cleaning up the house. The eerie sound of an owl fills the forest around me, but I'm not scared. I've dealt with worse monsters. Namely, my mother.

I've established a small camp site for myself, with a fire area and hopefully enough brush and dried leaves to insulate my slumber. Crimson flame spews from the lighter when I strike it, and suddenly the brush and sticks are alive. I have gathered enough dead tree branches and kindling to keep the fire going for the night, hopefully, but I'm still just praying I make it through. The last time this happened was terrible.

"I hate to interrupt your little campout," a voice calls out from about 50 yards away, "but you're gonna freeze to death if you stay out here."

I gasp and jump to my feet. "Cato! What are you doing here? You left," I manage quickly.

He doesn't speak until he's within 10 yards of me. "Yeah, I know. And then I thought about it for a second and realized only a crazy woman would lock their daughter out of her house," he says with a smile. "Then I thought about that, and realized… your mother is crazy." He takes on a more serious tone when he finishes, moving closer still. "You need to do something about this, Clove."

"What's there to do about it, huh? It's not like the Peacekeepers are going to do anything about it. Who do you think her customers are?" I sputter, unsure of why I'm getting angry at Cato. "Besides, I'm doing just fine by myself."

"It's okay to ask for help once in awhile. Why didn't you tell me about this? I can help you," he soothes.

I sigh and look down at my feet. What do I have to lose? Why don't I just speak bluntly? "Because it's embarrassing," I whisper, afraid of my own words. He's stopped moving closer now, just a few feet away from me. "I don't need anybody's help. I didn't want anybody to know about this."

"Well, I already know now. So what's the harm in letting me help?" he asks, spreading his hands apart. I hesitate a moment, looking back at my fire, then back at him. And I decide to take his help. I stamp out the fire with my sneaker, coughing at the black smoke rising up into my face. He pulls his jacket off and places it over my shoulders.

"When people let other people help them, they get jackets, you know," he smiles slyly, and I shake my head with a grin.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"You know what else they get?"

"Not a clue."

"Hot chocolate, Clove. They get hot chocolate."

I smile up at him and wonder what I did right to deserve this.


	3. Happy Birthday

**Ouais, le prochain chapitre! Sorry it took so long, I've been on unannounced hiatus for months now because of school. But here's a short little bit of a chapter for now. Lisez. :) **

I wake up in a daze Saturday morning, not quite sure where I am, but a deep yet calming voice from across the room reminds me.

"Good morning," he says cheerily. I frown at him. Right, I got locked out last night.

I pull the covers off and run my fingers through dark black, pin straight hair. "Morning," I manage.

He sits cross-legged on the end of the bed, his eyes quickly running over my figure, failing at discretion. He gave me a pair of his sweatpants and a tshirt last night to wear to bed, which almost seems to mimic a relationship-esque action, even if Cato is no more than a friend. And I slept in his bed, too.

"Do you know what today is?" he asks.

I think about it for a moment, and a few seconds later, I realize that today is the day I've been waiting for since I was a kid. "I can go get an apartment now!" I blurt. In District 2, you can stay in your parents' house indefinitely, until they want you out. Most kids don't leave their house until after they graduate college if they don't enter the Hunger Games, but the district will also grant you an apartment of your own on your sixteenth birthday as an alternative option. They say it's because they want to encourage the District's youth to be motivated towards an independent future, but I think it's just so they can make the kids get jobs sooner and make the District even better than the others.

Cato laughs at my outburst and shoves me. "I was going to say it's your birthday," he chuckles.

"Will you drive me back home so I can get my stuff and go apply for an apartment?"

"Clove!" he chuckles absent-mindedly. "Happy birthday!"

I look at him quizzically. "Yeah, birthdays have never really been a big deal in my house. I actually don't think my mom has ever been present and sober for any of mine. Other than the original one."

He looks at me more thoroughly, as if soaking up the details of my life. But strangely, he doesn't look at me like I expected; he doesn't act like I'm a lost little puppy who got kicked in the head by his owner. He just looks. "Don't you need help moving in?" he asks evenly.

"It's not much stuff, you know, I could do it myself."

"But it's your birthday," he counters, grinning.

The door is unlocked when I get back to my mother's house. She's not home, but I'm always bracing myself for her to come home; I never know what time it will be. Thankfully, packing is easy, because the few items of mine – bed linens, clothes, school books, toiletries, and other personal belongings – fit into a few large boxes that Cato and I fill quickly and throw into the back of his truck.

"Meet you at the town hall?" he yells over his engine. I nod in response and climb into my own car.

I follow closely behind his truck as we make our way through town. He smiles at me in the rearview mirror, and I have a sudden feeling that everything will be different now.

"Can you grab the key out of my pocket? I can't get it," I manage as a box threatens to slide off the pile I carry in my hands.

"No, no, no, put those down! You have to do it!" he urges. "It's the first time you're going into your apartment; you have to unlock it yourself."

I roll my eyes at him but oblige, practically throwing the boxes to the ground before reaching into my pocket and fumbling with the keys in the lock. I turn it slowly and open the door after the lock clicks.

"Behold," Cato whispers sarcastically.

It's really not much; it's a simple loft apartment with a small bathroom, kitchen and eating area, and a bed. It's not much, but it's everything. I can feel him smiling at me from the hallway, and when I turn towards him he smiles even wider.

"Time to unpack nothing," I remark drily while picking up the boxes.

"It might not be much, but most of the kids in the school are still at home with their parents. It's pretty cool you have an apartment to yourself," he reasons as we pile the boxes on the counter.

"I guess," I say, pulling picture frames and bed linens out of the first box.

Cato smirks as I unfold them onto the bed and begin to make it. "Preparing for our hot night tonight?" I choke on air in shocked response and topple over a small table by accident. He rushes over, the smirk lost on his face while he tries to repair the leg that came loose.

"Damn, I was only kidding," he smiles up at me, his face inches away while my hands work idly on nothing in particular. "You're not that kind of girl."

"You're forgetting about me apparently becoming a whore last summer," I return as I stand. "Didn't you hear? I was with like 10 different guys in one month, two of them on one occasion," I add, mimicking the voices of the snobbish girls who invented those rumors.

"Clove, come on. Nobody really believed that. Who would… I mean, you're not exactly…" he trails off.

My eyebrows knit together in what I can only describe as confusion and offense. But I quickly retaliate. "What? You don't think anybody would sleep with me? Congratulations, you now fit into the description of any member of the male student body that joined those girls in starting rumors about me."

"Clove, I didn't mean – "

"Just get out."

"Clove," he reaches for me, but I push him away.

"Now." I pause before adding, "Thank you for all of your help, but I am clearly beneath your standards."

He shuffles reluctantly to the door and leaves within moments.

I just unpack my stupid boxes and go to bed. Happy birthday to me.


End file.
